Possess

voice calling her name. Her full name, just like her mom did when Bridget was in a metric ton of trouble.
    “Bridget Yueling Liu.”
    Bridget spun around and found herself facing the display case of historic dolls. Her stomach sank as she watched the Little House on the Prairie doll—the one that had winked at her—stand up and place its wooden hands against the glass.
    “Bridget Yueling Liu,” the doll repeated.
    “How did you know my name?”
    The doll inclined its head. “He told me.”
    “Who? Your master?”
    The doll shuddered but didn’t answer.
    “Okay.” Not the talkative type, this one. “Not your master?”
    “I have a message,” the doll said.
    It was the first time Bridget had heard a demon refer to itself in the singular. This entity felt different from the rest, kind of like the last demon who inhabited Mrs. Long—the one who had given her a cryptic warning. This demon had a distinct voice and personality, separate from the collective.
    “Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”
    Again, the doll was silent. Not that it mattered. The name was already forming in Bridget’s mind.
    “Penemuel,” Bridget said hesitantly.
    The doll didn’t even pause. “I have a message for Bridget Yueling Liu.”
    “Fine. What is it?”
    “The messenger was sent. His warning was not delivered. You must find the messenger.”
    That was a new one. “Messenger?”
    “You must find the messenger.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    With a shrill cry, the doll thrust its wooden arm into the case, cracking the glass door. “YOU MUST FIND THE MESSENGER!”
    All right, all right. Don’t argue with the possessed doll, Bridge. She fought back her confusion and her fear and tried to concentrate on what Penemuel was saying. “Okay, find the messenger. How?”
    The voice turned rigid and struggled to get the next word out. “Me-yer. Un-der. Un-der. Me-yer.”
    Bridget froze. Milton Undermeyer.
    The man who had killed her father.
    “Un-der. Me-yer.”
    “Who told you this?” she asked, panic welling up. “Who sent you?”
    “Bridget Yueling Liu. He calls you Pumpkin Bunny. He says you will know.”
    “No!” she screamed. Impossible. How could her dad be sending messages through a demon? That would mean . . . She felt sick to her stomach. That would mean he was where they were. That would mean he was in Hell. No, no, no! She refused to believe it.
    The chanting in the shop rose to a fever pitch as the dolls continued to launch themselves against their cases. From around the room, Bridget heard the smashing of glass and a series of bloodcurdling screams as, one by one, the dolls hurled themselves at Bridget and the priests.
    Bridget shielded her face with her arm as a Madame Alexander princess and two American Girls went flying past her head. “How did you know that? Who told you?”
    “Pothered tints strut.”
    “Spins truth tottered.”
    “Thunder totters spit.”
    “Find the messenger.” With a fierce jab, Penemuel sent its tiny arm through the display case, lodging it in the splintered glass.
    “Potent dither trusts.”
    “Where is my father?” Bridget screamed.
    Penemuel lifted its head to Heaven. “My penance is done.”
    Bridget slapped her hands to the glass case against the wooden nub of Penemuel’s hand. “Tell me where he is!”
    “I am released!”
    The doll lifted up off its shelf, shuddered once as Mrs. Long had done, then crumpled, lifeless.
    “Bridget, what is going on? What are you doing?” Monsignor’s voice swirled through the chaos of the shop where piles of broken, mangled dolls lay twitching on the floor. “You need to finish the banishment.”
    Bridget didn’t care, not about the demons or Monsignor or the carnage that was Ms. Laveau’s creepy little store. She only cared about what Penemuel had told her. A message from her dad to find Milton Undermeyer. She felt like she’d been kicked in the gut with her own steel-toed boots.
    “Bridget!” She could barely hear Monsignor. The clamor had escalated, and the roar of voices encircled the room like a tornado. She needed to focus. Vade retro satana .
    “I banish you,” she said halfheartedly.
    The demons screeched in pain as the familiar tingle raced up Bridget’s arms and legs, strengthening her voice.
    “I banish you from these dolls, from this shop, from this world.”
    “No! No! Have mercy, little girl. Mercy!”
    “Get out,” she repeated. The energy intensified in her stomach and her voice was